IceLiech: Sword play
by sweetsnow73
Summary: Prompt from the random pair and prompt generator. "Liechtenstein and Iceland: Sword play" One-shot. It's just playing, they grew up learning very different ways of sword fighting. But as always things have a way of getting out of hand.


She twirls. She's a petal on the wind being blow away from his stick. She doesn't fight like anyone he's ever been against before. In his youth he was taught to fight with swords, by his brother, his people, to hunt and kill. He's fought against many, none like her. She uses her form expertly. Dodging, weaving. She uses her smallness to her advantage, it makes him seem like a clumsy oaf chasing a butterfly that he can't touch.

Sweet Liechtenstein, it had been a joke at first, brought in passing while watching a movie or some such thing. She got that look on her face and he thought it'd be easy. Sticks for swords and three taps and they'd lay this to rest. He had really only gone through this as a joke and he thought she would try hard with that cute look on her face and then it would end. He hadn't even let the idea of failure enter his head. He got the first tap in. He admit he had gotten smug. Her country wasn't know for it's military strength. He knew she could fire a weapon with a fair amount of accuracy, a unexpected thing considering it was her but he doubted she knew what she was doing with swords.

He had neglected to take into account just who raised her. That Austria would have neglecting nothing in his care of the Principality. He was sure that Hungary had a hand in this as well. The woman had defeated soldiers with her bare hands before, no way she'd let Liechtenstein just have the womanly arts. This was all something he had not predicted. That the tiny woman with a love of embroidery and baking would even be able to get a tap in. That she'd be able to hold her own.

Iceland wasn't about to let her win. A pride in his skill as a swordsmen he had long buried was awoken when her return tap was felt. This was a matter of pride now, he was aware as the ends of his thinking unwound as the competitiveness seeped in. They dueled with sticks as if it was the last battle of an invasion, more laying on the line then should be.

Liechtenstein remembers her lessons.

She had had a teacher, then Hungary had fought with her and she had practiced with some of the other nations under the rule of the empire, even the odd human or two. The last time she had used these techniques she had been braced in a corset, it was how she had learned and had gained skill. The lack of the contraption was actually hindering her, her lessons were slightly off now. Her fancy foot work more a over compensation for this change. Tiny graceful dodges, her face a look of pure concentration.

In her head she heard her teacher, correcting her follies.

Tap.

Second on her.

Tap.

Returned.

His face contorts into a look she's never seen before. She had noticed on her first tap that he had started to change his posture and approach. But this second tap. It was a horrible scowl, one that unsettles her. She's never seen him make that face before. It's not his usual scowl. Her Iceland didn't make that face. She plays with her posture. Prepares her feet. She's breathing heavily now from their engagement thus far. She's almost worried this will end badly. She knows on some level that he wouldn't hurt her but his face is unsettling on every level.

She's awoken something in him she hadn't meant to. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat and it won't go away. She grips the part of the stick that is in her hand a bit tighter. She braces low.

He lunges. He's changed his technique from what he was working towards and it throws her off. They collide, she falls under him and under the table. If she were taller and standing straight when he had lunged she would have smacked her head as she went down. As it is she has landed flat on her back, the stick tossed somewhere away. They had kept this formerly light hearted duel to the cleared living room, but of course it had moved them near the kitchen. From the shoulders up she's looking at the wooden underbelly of the table. He's landed on her, straddling her knees. She can't see him just yet but she can hear both of them breathing deeply from the duel. As a point that is lost to her, he taps his stick on her leg and then throws is aside. There is a creak from above and she can tell from his lean, that he's resting. Another creak as he sits up straight, both their breathing has slowed a little.

He dips his head under the table and she turns her head away. Not for wounded pride but for a fear of his scowl. The face she's never seen before. It's memory seared into her. He's bent over, to not hit his head on the table above them. Should he sit up straight he would receive a bad hit.

He touches the side of her head, drawing his hand lazily through her hair.

She looks at his face and she's relieved to see it's a face she knows and loves. She smiles and he's confused.

"D-Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Make that face."

His face contorts back into it and she blushes and hides her face in her hands.

"YES, that one. Stop it."

He has a small laugh. In so much as he laughs. He pulls away her hands and lays it gently them on the ground and soon they are looking at each other. His hands hold her face. He gently rubs the side of her face with his thumb.

"Alright I promise not to make that face."

She smiles and grabs his shoulders, pulls herself up to meet his lips and they kiss. She smiles while their lips touch.

She moves her leg and that causes a surprise reaction from the still straddling Iceland. He lets out a small moan and she stops moving.

She sees a special kind of shift in his face, this time, it's a far more familiar look gracing his features. She still has her hands holding herself to his leaning form.

A set of kisses are placed on her lips as one of his hands travel up her leg. As usual she was wearing a skirt, made her twirling earlier all the more dramatic, he remembers how her body moved and finds himself still impressed, despite his pride and victory. On some level he respects her skill.

Hand touches the delicate underwear, with the lace trim. He's seen them before and he has plans to see them again.

She freezes, like she always does, she's thinking and he waits. He had stopped kissing and both their faces are warm from the flush of emotions.

Her hands slowly fall from his shoulders and he slowly begins to move his hand away. Her hands play with the base of his neck and this causes a shudder in him. But this is the go ahead he needs as he trails his hand again, causing goose bumps to rise on her leg.

His thumb rubs the silky fabric and she squirms. But it's a gleeful squirming. Her hands have moved their way under the collar of his shirt. She's lightly teasing his skin with her nails, ghost touches that are rising noises from him.

They aren't great at this, not masters of this but they have learned each others bodies enough to know the things to get the other to squirm.

She wasn't sure what he was going to do when he it happened. Maybe undo his belt but the reason is mute as he tried to sit up straight and hits his head on the table. He lands on her and her hands wrap around him instinctively.

"Ice..Ice..Are you okay?" She shakes him slightly afraid he got a concussion.

He mumbles into her shoulder where his face landed. She calms down when she feels him talk and he lays his arm around her and slides his leg to move hers closer to him. They lay under the table holding each other.

"Rain check then?"

He mumbles again. He's too embarrassed to remove his face.

She kisses the part of his head that she can reach.

Some time passes and neither are sure how much, they just hold each other.

"Maybe...we could have a rematch?"

He groans.


End file.
